art talk. I was only too happy when some crisis in the kitchen summoned Vincent away from our table.
'So what's good here?' I asked, picking up my menu and trying to turn the conversation back to a subject I could handle.
'You didn't tell me today was your birthday,' Rhonda remarked reprovingly.
'It slipped my mind,' I replied.
My answer sounded unnecessarily curt, even to me. Ames' raised eyebrow sent me into retreat. 'After forty there's not much reason to keep track,' I added lightly. 'So what's good here?'
'Everything's good,' Ralph offered smoothly. 'It all depends on what you like.'
I looked at my menu, but looking didn't help. It was in French, most of it. The only word that looked vaguely familiar was 'tamale,' and that was only on the appetizer list.
'I didn't think tamales were French,' I objected.
Ralph smiled. 'They're not, but these are made from duck and they're wonderful.'
With his selection already made, Ralph lowered his menu and caught Rhonda's eye. 'So, did you reach her?' he asked.
'Yes, thank you so much,' Rhonda murmured. She took a delicate sip of her wine.
I had the distinct feeling I was once more being left out of the conversation. 'Reach who?' I questioned.
Ralph didn't answer but Rhonda did. 'Michelle,' she said, 'Michelle Owens. When I called him this morning, Ralph here very kindly agreed to try to help me locate her. He's very efficient. By this afternoon it was a fait accompli.'
In view of Rhonda's and my conversation from the night before, the idea of her having anything to do with either Michelle or Guy Owens made me very uncomfortable. 'Ralph helped you do that?'
Rhonda nodded. 'Owens is stationed at Fort Huachuca. He lives in a town called Sierra Vista just outside the military base. It's down in the southeastern part of the state.'
I turned from Rhonda to Ralph. Dismay must have registered all over my face. Ralph shrugged as though my concern was totally uncalled for.
'When Rhonda told me that Michelle and Joey had been…well, involved, and that perhaps the girl would be interested in attending the funeral, it seemed only reasonable. Under the circumstances, I think Rhonda's being very civilized to take Michelle's feelings into consideration. The funeral's Monday afternoon, by the way,' he added for my benefit. 'At St. John's Episcopal, right here on Lincoln Drive.'
I glanced at Rhonda Attwood. She was gazing back at me innocently, as if daring me to refute any of what Ames had said.
'Excuse me,' I said, 'but did Rhonda happen to mention to you that Michelle's father, Lieutenant Colonel Guy Owens, is quite possibly a suspect in the investigation into the death of her son?'
Naturally, the waiter chose that exact moment to return to our table. 'Are you ready to order?'
'Not yet,' Ames told him, waving him away. Only when the waiter was out of earshot did Ames answer my question.
'Actually, Rhonda did mention it. I checked with Delcia before I gave out the number.'
'Delcia?' I asked, uncertainly, feeling more and more like an outsider with every passing moment.
'You know, Delcia. Detective Reyes-Gonzales in Prescott. I talked to her early this afternoon. She said that she didn't have a problem with Rhonda inviting Michelle to the funeral.'
'What the hell do you think you're doing, messing around in a homicide investigation like that?'
'We're not messing around in any investigation, Beau,' Ames countered. 'Inviting Michelle Owens to attend Joey Rothman's funeral has nothing whatsoever to do with his murder. Is she going to come, by the way?' he asked, turning to Rhonda.
'If she can,' Rhonda replied. 'At least that's what she told me on the phone. She seemed touched that I had bothered to call. According to her, she hasn't heard a word from JoJo and Marsha. I don't expect she will, either.'
My brief warning to Ames on the way into the restaurant hadn't included Rhonda Attwood's exact words about intending to 'take out' the people responsible for her son's death, so he wasn't playing with an entirely full deck, but I was still astounded at the conversation shifting back and forth across the table between them.
I had the sickening feeling that Ralph Ames was being royally suckered, neatly led into the trap, and there I sat, watching but helpless to derail the process. Sentence by sentence Rhonda Attwood deftly plied him for information, asking innocent-sounding questions that drew him further and further into what I saw as her own private vigilante agenda.
It galled me to watch Ralph Ames, my trusty, sophisticated, man-of-the-world attorney who should have known better, be led like a lamb to the slaughter, smiling and laughing all the while. After all, it wasn't the first time. For either one of us.
'What about Michelle's father?' I asked ingenuously. I folded my arms across my chest and waited to see how Rhonda would respond to that one.
'He wasn't invited,' she responded carefully.
'I'll just bet he wasn't.'
There was a sudden flash of anger in Rhonda Attwood's eyes, one that wasn't masked by the flattering candlelight. 'What's that supposed to mean?' she demanded.
Our waiter reappeared as if on cue. It seemed like a deliberate plot. 'Are you ready now?' he asked.
Together, Ralph and Rhonda settled for something that roughly translated into mesquite grilled rack of lamb seasoned with thyme and garlic and served with jalapeno jelly and a still-burning sprig of rosemary. I ordered the Cornish game hen. Ralph insisted that we each try one of the appetizers-the tamales, cucumber soup, and red and yellow bell pepper soup.
The food was fine, but I would have enjoyed the dinner a whole lot more if I could have eaten without the sense that the artistic bullshit that passed for conversation around our table was nothing but a convenient camouflage for Rhonda Attwood's keg of emotional dynamite.
The fuse was already lit. The best I could hope for was to keep it from blowing sky-high and taking an unsuspecting Ralph Ames right along with it.
CHAPTER 12
While Rhonda and Ralph continued to talk about art and things artistic, I contented myself with people watching. The dining room grew crowded and noisy with fashion-plate people, including several who were evidently deeply entrenched in city politics. The women, dressed to the nines, were there to see and be seen. The men were there because the women were.
Our table afforded me an almost unobstructed view of the small grill area where no fewer than six men dove back and forth in a complicated ballet that was almost comic to watch although I have no quarrel with the quality of the food that ultimately ended up on our platter-sized plates.
Dessert, an unpronounceable creme brulee, consisted of three flavors of custard served in sweet miniature taco shells and topped with a rich raspberry sauce. Ames must have cued someone about my birthday, because my chocolate-glazed plate arrived with a lit candle stuck right in the middle of one of my custards. Thank God they didn't light all the candles I deserved.
I kept waiting for Rhonda to steer the conversation back to her son's murder, but that didn't happen, nor was there any further reference to plans for Joey's funeral. Two and a half hours after we had been seated, we were waiting outside for the valet to retrieve our cars. He brought the Fiat first. As Rhonda was getting in, she turned back to Ralph.
'Thank you for getting me the room,' she said, almost as an afterthought. 'It's so convenient, but…'
If she was going to voice an objection, Ralph waved it away. 'Don't worry about it. It's my pleasure.'
'What room?' I asked, once Rhonda had roared out of the parking lot past a waist-high sign that through some inexplicable coincidence said 'Beaumont Properties.'
'At La Posada,' Ralph said. 'The manager and I are good friends. We trade favors back and forth all the time. It's just up the street from the church. I told her to stay there until after the funeral.'
